


Christmas Pudding

by greenapricot



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Community: lewis_challenge, Lewis Winter Challenge 2018, M/M, Mentions of Valerie Lewis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 23:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17171294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: “You ever had a homemade Christmas pudding?” Robbie asks around his third bite.Hathaway shakes his head, eyeing the plate with suspicion. “Never had the pleasure.”





	Christmas Pudding

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Lewis Winter Challenge for the prompts Christmas pudding and a photo of a snow covered tree lined lane (the first one I got, the second one only kind of). 
> 
> A million thanks to Jack for the quick Brit-pick and lesson on northern Christmas pudding traditions. And thanks to all the lovely folks on the Morseverse Discord who helped me with my initial Christmas pudding research and fic idea generation. [ Nightvale James voice ] You know who you are.

“Someone’s left a Christmas pudding in the break room,” Hathaway says, with the tone of someone who’s discovered something particularly unpleasant, upon returning to the office.

“And you didn’t bring us any?” Robbie asks, taking the coffee cup from Hathaway’s outstretched hand. He could have done with a bit of Christmas pudding with his coffee.

Hathaway’s mouth twists in distaste. “Of course not.” 

“Not a fan, then?”

“Waste of perfectly good alcohol if you ask me,” he says, settling in behind his desk with his own coffee. 

When Robbie goes for more coffee an hour later he gets himself some pudding as well. Hathaway’s nose wrinkles when Robbie drops the paper plate on his desk and tucks in. It’s not bad for shop-bought and microwaved. 

“You ever had a homemade Christmas pudding?” Robbie asks around his third bite.

Hathaway shakes his head, eyeing the plate with suspicion. “Never had the pleasure.”

“Might change your tune if you did. Val used to make it. Her gran’s recipe, with alterations down the years. She’d do up the whole thing, mixing it up on Stirring up Sunday and the lot, all of us taking turns stirring and making wishes. Made us all close our eyes when she added the trinkets so we wouldn’t know what they were until one of us found one on our plate. The year Lyn was twelve it was pound coins. The kids ate half the pudding in no time, hoping for more.” 

It had been only him and Val on Stirring up Sunday that last year but she still kept with the tradition. He’ll never know Val’s wish now, and his certainly didn’t come true. 

“It was a silly thing,” Robbie says, trying not to fall into the past too much, always a problem this time of year. “But the kids liked it.” 

Robbie liked it too. He misses it. Lyn had tried to keep up the tradition, but she didn’t have the knack for it. Or the time. Besides, Marks & Spencer makes a decent enough ready-made pudding. All the same, the next bite doesn’t taste as sweet as the previous. If only there had been custard instead of sauce. 

Hathaway has an inscrutable look on his face when Robbie looks up to ask how he’s getting on with the Northam report.

* * * 

“Pint?” Robbie asks as they leave the station a week and a half before Christmas.

“Not today, sir. Sorry.” Hathaway does look genuinely sorry.

“More practice for your Christmas concerts?” 

“Rehearsal,” he says, looking a mite shifty. “With the band it’s rehearsal, not practice.” 

“Right.” 

“Have a good evening, sir,” Hathaway says and trots off down the steps toward his car before Robbie realises that he didn’t confirm that he was going to a rehearsal. 

Not that Hathaway owes Robbie an explanation of what he’s doing with his time when he’s not at work, but there’s been a lot of begging off pints of late. He even left Robbie’s flat right after they’d finished their takeaway the other day; didn’t stick around for the usual slagging off crap detective programmes. Robbie’s glad the lad’s band is having so much success and that they’ve been booked up the weeks before Christmas. It’s just… It’s not fair of Robbie to want to monopolise so much of his sergeant’s time, and it’s not a sergeant’s job to soothe his inspector’s old wounds, but this time of year he finds the company reassuring. Having someone to sit across from him and make sarky comments keeps him from spending too much time in his own head. 

* * * 

The 19th of December is a day like any other day. Or it should be. Robbie wants it to be. Wants to think about Val’s life, not her death; her smiling face and her laugh, her hand in his, her warmth beside him in bed at night. There will forever be a piece of him missing; most days he’s learned to live with it, to work around the hole Val’s absence has left, to be able to look past it without it falling into it. He doesn’t believe time will ever fully heal the wound but it has dulled the ache, especially since James became his sergeant. Most days Robbie can dwell on the happy memories without being overwhelmed by how much he still misses her. But on this day he can’t stop the sense of foreboding that creeps into the back of his mind and colours his every thought. 

Robbie can feel his shoulders tensing as the day goes on, his fuse getting shorter. He snaps at Hathaway about inconsequential things, grateful that at least they don’t have any witnesses to interview. Robbie knows he’s not the easiest person to deal with this time of year. He doesn’t ask James if he wants to grab a pint after work. He won’t be good company tonight, and he’s already subjected Hathaway to his black mood for an entire workday.

By going home time the temperature has dropped, as predicted, and the rain turned to giant flakes of snow and black ice on the roads. Hathaway stops outside the front door of the nick to pull on his gloves and turn his coat collar up against the blowing snow. 

“A Christmas miracle,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet and squinting up at the snowflakes streaming past the car park lights. The news has been banging on all week about the prospect of snow that might last until Christmas, looks like there’s a chance it may happen. It’s coming down quite hard; there’s already a good two or three inches on the ground and the waiting cars. 

“Be careful out there. On the road,” Robbie says, stuffing his hands deep in the pockets of his anorak.

“I will, sir,” James says, suddenly solemn. He tilts his head and gives Robbie a small, sad smile. He knows what day it is, of course, even if he knows better than to mention it. Like he didn’t mention Robbie’s ever-increasing snappishness as the day wore on. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * * 

Robbie stops at the off-licence on the way home and buys a bottle of brandy. He hasn’t kept it in his flat for years, not since before the BVI. He pours half the bottle down the drain before he pours himself a glass, removing the temptation of finishing the bottle before he starts. 

He turns on the telly for background noise and flips through the channels until he finds something suitably relaxing; a Christmas concert in a church, probably the sort of thing James plays with his band. He wonders if James is watching as well, he’ll likely want to if he isn’t. Robbie sends off a quick text telling James what channel the concert is on. He gets no reply but that’s not unusual. They’re not on rota, there’s no need for the lad to be glued to his phone. 

About halfway through the concert, Robbie sends another text. If James isn’t watching he’ll be disappointed to have missed it. Still no reply though, and nothing by the time the concert is over. Robbie finishes the last of the brandy, the sense of foreboding expanding in his gut. It’s this day, he tells himself. There’s nothing actually wrong, but the fact that he knows that doesn’t make the feeling go away.

One more text. Still no reply. Robbie gives in and rings James, but gets his voicemail. It’s only a little past nine o’clock. It’s unlikely that the lad has gone to bed. Though, he has been looking tired the past few days, which shouldn’t be unexpected with all the concerts and rehearsals on top of a full work schedule. James very well could have turned in early. That must be it. Robbie should do the same; get another 19th of December behind him. But the foreboding has expanded into dread. The roads were slick on his way home, he hit more than one icy patch that would have ended a lot worse if there had been a curve in the road. What if James hit one of those icy spots on a curve? What if he never made it home? Once the thought has crossed his mind, Robbie can’t shake it. It’s irrational. Well, maybe not entirely irrational on this day, but James is his sergeant, not his wife. 

He could phone James again, but what exactly is he going to say if James answers? _I can’t stop myself worrying you might be dead because my wife died on this day._ James is better off not knowing his governor has succumbed to irrational fear. There’s no need to put the weight of the underlying reasons on the lad. He’ll go to James’ flat, check that his car is parked in the street as expected and the lights are on and then come back here and go to bed. It’s a good plan. He can reassure himself and James need never know.

Robbie calls a taxi and waits an interminable amount of time for it to arrive in the steadily falling snow. It takes twice as long as usual to get across town and the cabbie is reluctant to navigate the rutted snow of unplowed streets on the approach to James’ flat. Robbie pays the cabbie at the corner and walks the rest of the way. The streets are empty, turned surreal and quiet in the snow. He’s distantly aware that it’s beautiful through the pervasive sense of unease. 

Relief washes over him when Robbie rounds the corner to see lights on in James’ flat, casting a warm, welcoming glow onto the snow in the garden. James’ car is parked two doors down, covered in enough snow to indicate that it’s been there all evening. That should be the end of it. James is home and therefore fine. Robbie can walk back to the main road and get another taxi home. But if James hasn’t turned in early why isn’t he answering his phone? He can’t see any movement through the partially closed curtains. Why would there be, though? James will be sitting on his sofa with a book. But now that he’s here Robbie might as well see for certain.

He crosses the road toward James’ flat. If James is sitting on the sofa Robbie will be able to see the back of his head through the gap in the curtains. James isn’t sitting on the sofa. Robbie moves closer still, up the steps, until he’s at the right angle to peek through the lower part of the front window. Faint strains of classical music, not dissimilar to the concert on the telly, drift through the glass. That should be enough of a sign that James is safe. Robbie can go home now. And yet, he stays there a minute longer, standing on his tiptoes, craning his neck to get a glimpse through to the kitchen.

There’s a thump and a crash, then another crash, and a shout. Seconds later, the door is wrenched open and James is standing in front of Robbie, his hair in disarray, cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks thunderous. There’s something dark splattered across his white t-shirt. The way James is backlit by the light coming from inside the flat Robbie can’t tell if the splatter is red or not. A spike of fear clenches around his heart.

“Sir?” James says, the look on his face softening from anger to surprise. He plucks the unlit cigarette from his lips.

“James.” Robbie’s voice comes out in a rush, relief and alarm coursing through him in equal measure. “Is that blood?”

James puffs out his cheeks and runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up even more, then looks down at himself. “Rum, barley wine, stout, and eggs.”

“What?”

“On my shirt. It’s not blood.” James says, his brow furrowing in concern. 

“Oh. I—” This is the moment when Robbie ought to give some explanation for lurking on his sergeant’s doorstep, but in the face of James standing before him—obviously fine save for having spilt something down his front—all his previous worries seem so ridiculous Robbie can’t make himself admit to any of them. 

James looks Robbie up and down as if fully taking in his presence for the first time, then over his shoulder into the flat like he’s considering shutting the door behind him and joining Robbie in the street. He shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair again. “Come in,” he says and steps out of Robbie’s way to let him through the door. 

The kitchen is a mess, the worktop scattered with jars and bottles, cut up bits of dried fruit and nuts, a liberal sprinkling of what looks like a mixture of sugar and breadcrumbs, and the same dark, viscous liquid that’s splattered across James’ shirt. An open bottle of wine sits next to the mess along with a half-full wine glass covered in sticky fingerprints. The remnants of a glass bowl are shattered across the far corner of the kitchen island, its contents and shards of glass scattered across the worktop and onto the floor. Sprinkled with sparkling shards of glass or not, Robbie recognises the contents of the broken bowl.

“Is this— are you making Christmas pudding?”

“It’s harder than it looks.” 

It looks like a bloody bomb went off. 

“I um— it was meant to be a surprise and not on the floor.” James glances at Robbie then turns away, grabbing the bin from under the sink and crouching down to pick out the shards of glass from the mess on the floor. James’ t-shirt pulls tight over his shoulders as he stretches to reach an especially large curved piece of glass without kneeling in the batter. Robbie suppresses the urge to touch him, to get James to turn around and look at him. 

Instead, he says, “You don’t like Christmas pudding.”

“You do.” Colour rises on the back of James’ neck as he continues to concentrate on his task. “I think I’ve finally found the right recipe. The first three didn’t quite go to plan. I tried to go full traditional but it was harder than anticipated to source the original ingredients. I had to improvise and, well…” He picks out the last of the glass and starts scooping the pudding mixture into the compost bin. “This recipe is well spoken of on multiple respected food blogs. The combination of rum, barley wine, and stout will add a nice richness to the flavour, I think.” James stands, replacing the bins under the sink and washing his hands. He looks sheepish when he turns around to face Robbie, bowing his head and averting his eyes, the colour on his cheeks unmistakable. “It was silly I suppose, I just wanted…”

Then he shakes his head as if clearing it and gives Robbie a tentative smile. “Sorry. Would you like some wine?” James turns away to fetch a wine glass from the cabinet behind him. 

Robbie watches the tilt of James’ head and slope of his shoulders as he carefully selects a wine glass, continuing to avoid Robbie’s eyes. He’s seen this look before, after an off-hand comment of his led James to pull an all-nighter sorting photos. He’d dismissed it at the time as James’ enthusiasm for tying up a case that had seemed unsolvable. But there is no case-related explanation for this. The only logical explanation for this is… well, there isn’t one. It’s inexplicable. The lad was making him Christmas pudding. James doesn’t like Christmas pudding. Robbie breaths through the tightening in his chest and surreptitiously wipes at the prickle at the corner of his eye.

“You did this for me?” 

“I haven’t yet,” James says, placing the wine glass on the worktop next to him and turning to finally meet Robbie’s gaze. He crosses his arms in front of him and leans his hip against the kitchen counter. “But yes.” 

The show of nonchalance isn’t terribly convincing. James is clearly embarrassed at being caught out, but there is a wistfulness to his expression as well, and stubbornness, as if he’s daring Robbie to call him on it. 

“James. I don’t know what to say.” Robbie steps closer, resting his hand on James’ bare forearm. James takes a sharp inhale at the touch and uncrosses his arms, dislodging Robbie’s hand and leaning more heavily against the counter.

“I was going to leave the pudding on your desk for you to find on Christmas Eve.” James reaches for the wine bottle and begins filling the glass despite Robbie not saying he wanted any. “Anonymously. I never intended for you to know it was me…” 

“I’m glad I came by then.”

“Why did you come by?” James asks, holding the wine glass out to Robbie. He doesn’t let go when Robbie reaches for it. They stand there for a moment, more than a moment, fingers twined together around the stem of the glass. 

Now it’s Robbie’s turn to be embarrassed, but James has made him Christmas pudding, or attempted to anyway, despite his own dislike of it. The least Robbie can do is be honest with the lad. Robbie takes the full weight of the glass and James lets go, his fingers sliding over Robbie’s in a near caress. Robbie takes a large sip of wine. 

“It’s daft but— With the snow and the ice and what day it is… There was a concert on the telly and you didn’t answer when I texted about it and I thought— Well, I didn’t think, but I worried and… If I came round and saw that your lights were on and you were all right then I knew I’d sleep better. But then you opened the door…”

“You came out in the snow to make sure I’d gotten home all right in the snow?”

“Sounds even dafter when you put it like that.”

James smiles, a bright blinding smile that lights up his face and the whole room. “About as daft as trying to make the perfect Christmas pudding for your boss when you don’t even like it.”

Robbie can’t help but smile back. “Quite possibly.”

“We could try it again if you like. Together. I think I’ve got enough ingredients.”

“I’d like that,” Robbie says. 

* * * 

The next year Robbie goes home with James on the 19th of December. They have dinner and then mix up the pudding together. Robbie reminisces about Val and James listens and tells him to chop the dried peel smaller. When it’s Robbie’s turn to stir, James stands with is chest to Robbie’s back, arms wrapped around him, holding the bowl steady and presses small kisses to his neck. Robbie wishes for the same thing he did the previous year, even though that wish has already come true.

It’s not that James has filled the space that Val left, not that Robbie would want him to, but there’s another part of him now, a tall, blond sarcastic part, that is every bit as precious as Val’s missing piece. 

_____


End file.
